Jingle

by Gordon Korman

  Ben wasn’t in a very festive mood. He sat in the kitchen, trying to feed a holiday dinner consisting of fruitcake and a potato latke to Ferret Face, who was having none of it.

  Ben wasn’t annoyed. On the contrary, he was proud. “That’s right, little guy. Stand up for your rights as a carnivore.”

  The ferret seemed like a role model for Ben himself—someone who rejected having Christmas and Hanukkah shoved down his throat.

  The sad part was Ben had always enjoyed both holidays—trimming the tree and lighting the menorah. And the presents; who didn’t like presents? He’d never compared one against the other. A chocolate Santa tasted exactly the same as a coin of chocolate Hanukkah gelt once it was in your mouth.

  His parents were in the living room, seated as far apart as humanly possible without actually falling off the opposite ends of the couch. Mom was watching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV. Dad was ignoring that and reading a book on the life of Judah Maccabee, hero of the Hanukkah story. Even today, on the holiday itself—both holidays!—the competition was still on.

  With me caught in the cross fire.

  If only it was as easy as rejecting fruitcake and potato latke.

  He needed air—a change of scenery—just for a little while. He’d never abandon his family on such a big night, but if he didn’t clear his head, he was going to implode.

  He stood up. “I’m going over to Griffin’s.”

  Mrs. Slovak reached under the tree and pulled out a brightly wrapped pastry box. “Christmas cookies for the Bings,” she explained.

  He took it from her. “Got it.”

  “Wait!” Her husband rushed into the kitchen and emerged with a paper plate covered with aluminum foil. “Latkes for the Bings,” he announced proudly.

  “Right.” Ben balanced the plate atop the box.

  “Not like that!” Mom complained. “The oil will drip down and spoil my cookies!”

  “My latkes are not oily,” Dad retorted icily. “They are light and fluffy.”

  “I can switch it.” Ben placed the box over the plate. “It’s fine. See?”

  “Don’t squash my latkes,” his father warned.

  And when Ben finally kicked into boots and stepped out into the cold, snowy evening, he felt like he’d just escaped a war zone.

  He was grateful for his boots. The powdery snow was already up over his ankles and swirling around the streetlights. It was starting to look like they were going to get a whiter Christmas than anyone had bargained for.

  The familiar walk to Griffin’s house looked alien in the frosty landscape, but Ben’s feet found their way by sheer force of habit, as they had so many times before.

  Ferret Face poked his head out and tried to get his needle nose under the aluminum foil, but Ben flicked him away. “You already had your chance, mister. You snooze, you lose.”

  Mrs. Bing seemed surprised to find him on her doorstep. She hurried to hustle him in out of the storm. “Take a moment to warm up, but then I have to turn you around and send you home. Surely you know that Griffin is being punished.”

  Ben held out the box and plate in his arms. “Cookies and latkes from my folks. Happy holidays.”

  She took them. “Thanks, Ben. And my best to your parents. Your house is certainly … joyful this year.” She looked torn as he turned for the door. “Oh, go on upstairs, just this once. It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

  “Am I ever glad to see you!” Griffin exclaimed as Ben let himself into the room. “I’ve never been grounded on vacation before. You don’t even get out to go to school. It’s like the state penitentiary!”

  “The state penitentiary would be an improvement over my house these days,” Ben said in a dispirited tone. “I had to escape, even for just a few minutes.”

  “Things aren’t much better here,” Griffin confided. “You know who called an hour ago? Mrs. Vader. She picked today to tell my dad that she can’t file the patent for Fruit Armor yet—not till she has more proof that the invention really works. Merry Christmas, huh?”

  “That’s awful,” agreed Ben. “What did your dad do?”

  “What could he do? He went over to pick up his prototype so he can run some more tests on it. His holiday is totally ruined.”

  Ben gazed out Griffin’s window toward the glow in the sky that he knew was coming from his own street. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  “This holiday was ruined the minute the Star of Prague disappeared,” Griffin said glumly. “And the worst part is we’re just sitting on our butts letting it happen to us.”

  * * *

  The bicycle was barely visible in the swirling snow as Tiffany Boucle plowed through the accumulating powder. It was a good thing she was riding a mountain bike, its wide tread biting into the drifts and propelling her forward. Otherwise, her progress would have been absolute zero. As it was, she was going to have to call Mom and Dad for a lift home. No way could she make it back from Cedarville to Green Hollow—not with this storm getting stronger. They were going to be mad, no question about that. But hopefully she’d have something to show them that was so fantastic that they would forgive her.

  She turned onto Ninth Street—Cedarville’s main drag—following the directions he had given her. The stores and businesses were all shut down for Christmas. The town was deserted. She checked her watch. She was late. She hoped he would understand and be waiting.

  She remembered his description of the meeting place: A hot-air balloon shaped like a four-sided top hanging over a house so lit up that it eclipses everything else in the neighborhood.

  There it was, hovering above the trees, just off to her left! She couldn’t make out the exact shape through the falling snow, but it was flashing on and off. How many of those could there be? And there was no mistaking the eruption of light coming from below. This had to be the place!

  She pedaled laboriously through the deepening powder, following the light in the sky. Partway there, riding became impossible, and she had to dismount and walk her bike. Ice crystals formed on her long lashes, almost blinding her. The wind nearly knocked her flat.

  At last she rounded a corner to the house. She’d known it was coming, and even so, the sight of it close up took her breath away. It was beautiful … and hideous. Gorgeous … and tacky. Fabulous … and ridiculous. She couldn’t decide what her real opinion was. But in any case, it was impressive that so many lights could fit on one little home.

  And the music—chiming bells, Christmas carols, warring with very spirited violin solos.

  She was so amazed by the sights and sounds that at first she didn’t see him approaching.

  “Tiffany—you came.”

  Mr. Bing didn’t drive home so much as skid there. The station wagon slid down the block and into the driveway, where it came to a halt barely an inch from the garage door.

  From Griffin’s window, the boys watched him storming up the front walk. Then came the slam—and the yelling. Griffin had never heard his father so enraged.

  “Oh, man, he sounds really steamed,” whispered Ben.

  Griffin put his finger to his lips and led his friend out of the room. The two stopped at the top of the stairs, snooping.

  “… bad enough that Daria Vader sits on my prototype for all this time and chooses Christmas Eve to throw it back in my face! Now she can’t find it? That’s not just irresponsible; it violates the trust between attorney and client! An invention that isn’t patented yet can be pirated by anybody! It’s her responsibility to keep it secure!”

  Griffin and Ben exchanged a look of dismay. Fruit Armor was missing?

  Mrs. Bing was alarmed. “Do you think it was stolen?”

  “I don’t know what to think!” he seethed. “It was in her basement. She swears it was there yesterday, but it’s not there now!”

  “Did the two of you look for it?” his wife probed.

  “There was no time!” he cried in frustration. “Their precious spoiled brat of a son went out and he hadn’t come
back yet, so they had to go and look for him. Like a little snow could melt a big tank like him.”

  Griffin squeezed Ben’s arm hard enough to splinter bone.

  “Ow! What?”

  “Vader’s missing, too!” Griffin hissed. “Vader gone; Fruit Armor gone. There must be a connection.”

  “But what would Darren want with your dad’s prototype?” Ben asked, mystified. “Besides using it to bounce off my head, I mean. Vader’s probably not even missing. I’ll bet he just went over to say good-bye to Russell and get in some last-minute butt-kissing before the kid takes off for California.”

  Griffin’s concentration was so intense that the clunk of gears could almost be heard turning inside his head. The look was instantly recognizable to Ben. The Man With The Plan was working out a complicated problem.

  He said, “Remember that round case for Dirk Crenshaw’s disco ball? It always bugged me that it looked kind of familiar.”

  Ben was hopelessly lost. “What does a disco ball have to do with your dad’s invention?”

  Griffin’s eyes were alight with discovery. “Don’t you see? That case was exactly the size and shape of Fruit Armor! If the Star could fit inside that, then it could also fit inside—”

  “Fruit Armor!” Ben finished in awe.

  “That’s why the police couldn’t find the Star!” Griffin concluded triumphantly. “Vader’s got it. And he hid it someplace no one would ever think to look—inside my dad’s prototype!”

  “Griffin and Ben!” came a harsh voice from below. “How dare you two eavesdrop on our private conversation?”

  The boys looked down to find the Bings glaring up at them.

  “Dad—you have to listen me!” Griffin exclaimed. “I think I know what happened to Fruit Armor!” Breathlessly, he stammered out the theory he had just shared with Ben.

  “That’s impossible,” Mrs. Bing said flatly. “I know you and Darren don’t get along, but to accuse him of this is pretty far-fetched. When the Star of Prague went missing, it was in all the papers and on TV. Everyone’s looking for it—the police, private detectives hired by the Colchester family, insurance investigators—”

  “I’ll bet none of them ever looked in the Vaders’ basement,” Griffin insisted.

  Mr. Bing stared at his son. Griffin was young and impetuous and stubborn and quick to jump to conclusions. But even when he wasn’t exactly right, he was usually onto something. There was a good reason they called him The Man With The Plan.

  “Get in the car,” he ordered Griffin and Ben.

  “Surely you’re not taking this seriously?” his wife protested.

  “Fruit Armor is missing. And this is the only lead I have.”

  * * *

  Tiffany smiled when she recognized him under the ski mask. “Sorry I’m late, Logan. I was afraid you wouldn’t wait for me.”

  Logan pulled up the mask. “Are you kidding? This is going to be awesome—to film you singing ‘Winter Wonderland’ with the snow falling all around you in front of the most festive house in town. Darren’s going to love it,” he added to win her over.

  “I hope my parents do, too,” she said nervously. “They aren’t going to be too happy about me riding into the next town in the middle of a blizzard.”

  Logan frowned. “You didn’t tell them?”

  “You think they would have said yes?”

  “I guess not, but …” He bit his lip. “You don’t think your mom will blame it on me, do you?”

  Tiffany looked around. “Where should I stand?”

  “Right next to the inflatable snowman. And you’ll need this.” He clipped a wireless microphone to the fur collar of her parka. “It’ll boost your voice and trap out all the background music coming off the house.”

  She beamed at him as they crossed the street to the Slovaks’ lawn. “Thanks so much, Logan. This is a really great idea.”

  “Hey, we performers have to support each other, right? Don’t forget that part when you’re talking to your mom.”

  Logan took out his phone and framed the camera shot.

  From: GBingPlanner

  To: MountainGirl; AnimalsRUs; StageLogan; TechWizard

  ALERT: Vader has the Star hidden in Fruit Armor prototype! Must be stopped at ALL COSTS!

  At the Benson home, a second-story window opened and a shadowy figure swung a leg over the sill. The climb down the side of the house was effortless, despite the worsening storm. Pitch and her family had conquered some of the toughest mountains, crags, and rock faces in the world—for fun. A mere brick wall was child’s play.

  She wore no coat, so she was shivering as she dropped to the white-blanketed grass and rushed into the garage. A few moments later, the automatic door folded open and out she glided, in a full snowsuit and moving athletically on cross-country skis.

  She skied around the corner, slowing down in front of the Dukakis house. Her timing was perfect. Melissa, bundled in her warmest hat and an impossibly puffy down coat, let herself out a side door and came running.

  She took in the sight of Pitch in all her alpine glory. “You ski, too?”

  “I’m good at everything,” Pitch explained, almost apologetically.

  “Where should we start searching for Darren?” asked Melissa, jogging along beside the skier.

  Pitch shrugged. “If you were a backstabbing slimeball with ten million dollars’ worth of loot, where would you be?”

  “At the bank, probably,” Melissa panted. “But they’re closed now. Everybody is. It’s Christmas.”

  “Yeah, you’d think even the crooks would be taking the night off. On the other hand, nobody ever went wrong thinking the worst of Vader. I guess we just cruise around and keep our eyes open. Anybody out on a night like this is bound to be up to no good, and that’s got Darren written all over it.”

  Melissa pushed her curtain of hair under her hat to clear her vision for better searching.

  Out of the swirling snow came a familiar barking. An enormous white dog exploded out of the storm and began to circle them.

  A few seconds later, Savannah appeared, laughing. “Puppies love to roll in the snow.”

  “And what exactly does that have to do with Luthor?” Pitch asked.

  “He’s just a big baby at heart,” Savannah explained. “Dogs are so in the moment. He probably doesn’t even remember the last time he saw winter.”

  “Forget winter,” Pitch interrupted. “When’s the last time he saw Vader? That’s the only reason I’m out here, freezing the end of my nose off.”

  “And we’re all in big trouble if we get caught,” Melissa put in. “We’re supposed to be grounded, remember?”

  “I feel Kansas closing in,” Pitch groaned. “All right, I say we go street by street, tracking back and forth between here and the Vaders’. If he’s still in town, we should spot him.”

  * * *

  The Bings’ station wagon had all-wheel drive, but still it skidded on the unplowed roads.

  Griffin was in the passenger seat, staying as far from his father as possible without physically leaving the car. Mr. Bing’s anger was so great that Griffin and Ben could feel it coming off him in waves of heat.

  He verbalized his outrage in a running commentary: “Daria Vader, Attorney-at-Law—Daria Vader, Mother of Crook would be more like it! How could she leave my intellectual property at the mercy of her son the criminal? And she has the nerve to tell me I didn’t do enough testing? It’s good enough for her little brat to steal, isn’t it …?”

  Griffin should have taken some satisfaction from his father’s diatribe. He had spent years trying to convince his parents that Darren’s money-grubbing dishonesty went far beyond simply “boys being boys.” Yet now that the message had finally gotten through, he was too upset at his father’s distress to reap any joy out of it. A major invention was at risk—not to mention a ten-million-dollar piece of art history.

  Suddenly, Mr. Bing slammed on the brakes so hard that the car fishtailed, turning two complete
revolutions on the icy road.

  Ben sprawled out on the backseat, dumping Ferret Face onto the floor.

  Griffin held on to the door for dear life. “Dad—what happened?”

  “Weren’t those your friends back there?”

  Griffin became guarded. This was definitely not the time to confess that Operation Starchaser was still going on. “Why would my friends be out on a night like this?”

  “Because I almost ran over Luthor! And wherever he is, the Drysdale girl is never far behind.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Griffin coaxed. “Your invention is more important than a few kids and a dog. Let’s keep searching.”

  “I’d love to,” his father admitted. “But I can’t let these kids freeze out here. We’ll run them home and then come back out after Darren.”

  “They won’t want to go,” Griffin warned.

  “I understand that,” his father told him. “They’re all grounded. Is there something in the Cedarville water that no kid ever obeys anything?”

  He threw the station wagon into reverse and was just about to back up toward Griffin’s friends when a loud motor shattered the quiet of the night. A fluorescent yellow snowmobile overtook them from behind and roared past.

  Ben squinted. “Isn’t that the Vaders’ Ski-Doo?”

  Even on this stormy night, it was impossible not to recognize the burly teenager seated at the controls. The glow of a streetlight illuminated the orange globe shape held in place between the wheel and his chest.

  “My Fruit Armor!” Mr. Bing wheezed.

  Rescuing the kids forgotten, the inventor took off after the snowmobile, honking his horn and yelling. He turned on his high beams just as Darren glanced over his shoulder. The fleeing boy was momentarily illuminated like a performer in a spotlight.

  A hulking luxury SUV pulled even with the station wagon, and a crazed woman’s voice bellowed, “Darren, you come back here!”

  “It’s the Vaders!” Griffin exclaimed. “They’re after Darren, too!”